


Misplaced

by latin_cat



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Class Swap AU: Sir Richard Sharpe is C-in-C of the Peninsula Forces and Arthur Wesley an officer up from the ranks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Dublin, 1769

**Author's Note:**

> Started for a KinkMeme over on DreamWidth, but it has turned into something of an epic. New chapters will come as and when (Though between you and me there will be more 'when' then 'as').

The child was stillborn. It had been such a pale and sickly-looking thing that the midwife had not been at all surprised when it failed to draw breath, despite all the tricks she knew to persuade ailing newborns to cling to life. The poor Countess was exhausted, and when informed that her labour had been in vain she had not wished to even look at the child; she had simply turned her head away and told the midwife to call in her husband.

The Earl of Mornington had been waiting anxiously outside his wife’s chamber, and on not hearing the expected cry of a newborn his anxiety had naturally increased; so when the midwife emerged from the room holding the bundle of blankets and bearing a solemn expression he had already prepared himself for the worst. It had been a boy, he was told; a son that had failed to make it into this world. The baby had never drawn breath.

“Did her ladyship give you any instruction?” the Earl had asked, having briefly looked over the pale, crumpled and still bloodied face of the newborn.

“No, my lord. She did not even want to see the child.”

The Earl nodded, covering the baby's face once more with the blanket.

“Then we shall not trouble with a funeral. Take it to the undertaker’s on North Lane and have it quietly interred alongside the previous child.”

“Very good, my lord. What name shall the parish clerk put in the register?”

“Arthur,” the Earl replied, looking at the tiny bundle with something that could have been interpreted as regret. “Twice I have tried to give that name to a son, and twice I have failed. It is not meant to be, obviously.”

And making no further comment the Earl went into the Countess’ chamber which the attending maid had just quitted carrying a basin and a small pile of bloodied towels, shutting the door firmly behind him. As far as the Earl of Mornington was concerned the matter would be closed as soon as his man of business settled the undertaker’s bill.

The midwife, however, had other plans. The blankets the baby was wrapped in were fine wool, and the maid had given her a new petticoat and cap for the child to be buried in. They were all of the highest quality: too good to waste by being put in the ground and as far as the midwife was concerned waste was a mortal sin, especially when she knew she could make a tidy amount from their sale. A respectable cheap shroud was good enough for anyone to be buried in. The blankets would have to be washed first of course, and whilst she was about it she might as well wash the corpse as well – O’Leary the undertaker would be less inclined to make a fuss if she presented her burden clean.

However when she had returned home, filled a large basin with water and started to scrub the baby down with no real gentleness she was shocked to find the infant suddenly stir, take a deep, gasping breath and begin bawling its lungs out. So astonished and afraid was the midwife that she very nearly dropped the baby, but some ingrained instinct stopped her from doing this and she set it down on the table where it lay squirming and crying. This astounding recovery was surely nothing short of a miracle, yet for the midwife it proved to be a very inconvenient miracle. The child lived, but there could be no question of returning to Merrion Street with the babe. Neither the Earl nor the Countess had shown any concern for his future and, more to the point, if they did decide they wanted him still the midwife could see her profit from the sale of his clothing disappearing into the long grass - but what to do? She couldn't kill it: twenty years of bringing people into the world simply would not allow her to send anyone into the next. There was only, realistically, one option open to her.

On the north side of the River Liffey was a Protestant orphanage maintained by the Cathedral of St. Patrick and a band of select wealthy patrons. That evening the midwife came before the priest in charge, the infant wrapped up in a coarse old blanket and a few shillings scraped together as a ‘gift’ to the Church. The priest looked the child over, which was now fast asleep, and nodded his acceptance.

“Does the boy have a name?”

“Arthur,” the midwife said firmly, remembering what the Earl had told her. The least she could do was leave the child with the name intended for him. “Arthur Wesley.”

The priest had raised an eyebrow but made no further comment on the choice of name. He knew the name of Wesley, as did everyone in Dublin, and from the somewhat underhand manner of the midwife's visit - along with the presence of a rather pathetic bribe - he thought it most likely that the infant was the bastard result of some below stairs affair in the Earl of Mornington’s household. Such things were common within Dublin Society, and midwives were known agents for disposing of future embarrassments in as discreet and charitable a fashion as possible: a life in the care of the Church, it was considered, was better than no life at all. Besides, agreeing to care for a noble bastard was a certain way to bring in extra funds, and it was well known that the Earl of Mornington was of an extremely charitable disposition to those causes which he deemed 'deserving'.

“Very well," the priest said. "We shall take him. And you may assure anyone else you think might wish to know of it that we shall take the greatest care of him.”

And so the midwife left, happy and with a lighter conscience for having safely delivered her burden into hands that could afford to care for it. She could not at that moment have anticipated that years later the consequences of her sin would return to find her out in the most direct and alarming way imaginable.


	2. Part II: Flanders, 1795

Captain the Hon. Richard Sharpe of His Majesty’s 33rd Foot, eighteen years old and on his first campaign, picked his way through the snow past the scattered fires of the battalion’s Light Company. He was cold and hungry, and so were his men, as was every man posted on this Godforsaken stretch of the riverbank. He had tried his best to get supplies from the commissariat, and when that had failed he’d attempted to purchase them himself from the surrounding farms – those that had not been looted already – but nothing he could do seemed to make the slightest difference. His men were starving and freezing to death here on the banks of the Waal, and he could do nothing but watch them die.

He should be able to do something.

His stomach gave a violent pang and Sharpe stumbled in the snow. A month earlier he would have had the strength to stop himself from falling, but weak from hunger his long skinny legs buckled beneath him and he landed face down in the cold, wet snow. He gasped a pained curse, rolling onto his side to stare up at the dark sky, flurries of snow stinging him in the face. He knew he should get up, as it would be fatal to lie here for any longer… But it would be so hard, so hard to rise again; and it stood to reason that he would only fall once more. Why shouldn’t he just give in now? He could lay here and close his eyes, let the cold take him in his sleep and die peacefully. It wouldn’t hurt, he reasoned, not really - it would be better than to die screaming in pain on the battlefield. And who knew? Some good might come of his death as his father, the Earl of Basingstoke, would undoubtedly kick up a stink in the House when he learned that his only son and heir had not died by the hand of the enemy, but by the corruption of the army’s own supply system. And as for his mother…

In his mind’s eye Sharpe could picture his mother. Lady Elizabeth Sharpe, Countess of Basingstoke; a beautiful woman by any standards, with fine green eyes and soft brown hair. She had been a whore before she met the then Hon. James Sharpe, yet on finding her pregnant with his child the young man had found he loved her enough to make her his bride. Sharpe did not mind knowing that technically he was a bastard; his father had never cared and so likewise he did not. He knew his mother would weep for his loss. His heart fluttered feebly in his breast as he imagined her warm green eyes filling with tears, as she mourned the loss of her son. There would not even be a body for them to bury at home.

He felt himself being lifted up out of the snow, several pairs of hands carrying him for a few paces and then gently laying him down again. Was that it? He wondered. Was he dead now, and they were moving his body to one side so that he would not clog up the roadway? But no, it was warmer here; a gentle warmth that he felt flushing over the bare skin of his face, as if he were sitting by a fire. Slowly he cracked open his bleary eyes, and whilst he could not focus on detail he could see the flames of a small campfire burning away merrily, and many faces peering down at him anxiously. A mug of something hot was thrust under his nose.

“Get this down you, sir,” a voice said firmly. “You’ll feel better for it.”

Sharpe recognised that voice; it was unmistakable. Shivering violently, the captain accepted the steaming tin mug and drank eagerly. It was broth; thin, greasy and containing meat of dubious origins, but it was better than anything he’d had in days. Having downed it all he leaned back, sighing with contentment as he felt the warmth returning to his body.

“Thank you, sergeant,” he murmured.

Sergeant Wesley gave a humourless smile, taking up Sharpe’s smooth, almost lady-like hands and rubbing them in an attempt to speed his young captain’s recovery.

“Don’t mention it, sir.”


	3. Part III: Seringapatam, 1799

The attack on the _tope_ was turning into a rout for the British. Rockets flashed in the darkness, muskets cracked irregularly, men screamed, and surrounded by smoke and shadows Colonel Sharpe knew with terrible certainty that he had lost control of the situation. He cursed the fact that he had not been given time to do a reconnaissance of the area before they advanced, and that the appointed hour of attack had coincided with he and his men having the setting sun to their backs as they crossed the aqueduct, silhouetted for the enemy to fire upon at their leisure – and yet, on top of all that, Sharpe knew he had made yet another mistake; by far the gravest of them all... He had allowed himself to lose sight of the objective. Seeing that the skirmish was going badly he had plunged into the trees on his horse, determined to regroup his men, and merely found himself lost in the confusion. He had always led from the front, despising those officers who hung back whilst their men went to their doom; it was his bravery under fire that had made his reputation and earned him the affection of the rank and file – but he had forgotten that there was a reason commanding officers held back. No one on a battlefield (or in a _tope_ ) could see the engagement as a whole, and it had been his duty to remain objective; yet instead he had become involved.  
  
The quickest way to remedy this blunder was to get out of the _tope_ again and assess the situation from there; but in all this confusion he was no longer certain which way was out. He dismounted his charger, deciding it would be easier on foot, and headed away from the sound of musketry, cautiously leading the horse. However, he did not get far before he came across an astonishing and disturbing scene.  
  
In the gloom, squatting like some hideous ghoul over the prone form of Lieutenant Fitzgerald was Sergeant Hakeswill – and grappling with the sergeant, holding a knife to his throat, was one of the Tippoo’s soldiers in a strange tiger-stripe tunic. The sergeant was struggling and screaming, trying to shake off his attacker, but the tiger held on fast, the knife blade pressing hard into Hakeswill’s throat.  
  
“...you can’t!” Sharpe heard Hakeswill howl. “Don’t be a fool, you paddy scum! You bastard! You can't kill me! I cannot die!”  
  
Arthur Wesley’s voice cut through the darkness with an edge of winter ice.  
  
“And haven’t I always aimed to achieve the impossible?”  
  
And the blade flashed sharp and quick, and Hakeswill let out a horrible gurgle, slumping forwards to ground, dark blood pulsing from the gash in his throat in huge, sickening spurts.  
  
“What have you done?”  
  
Wesley looked up in surprise (for Sharpe could see now that the tiger-soldier was not one of the Tippoo’s men as he had first assumed, but his former sergeant) and the colonel was astonished to find that he had spoken his horrified thoughts aloud. Wesley recovered almost immediately though, for he rushed forward and grabbed the stunned colonel by his sleeve and steered him towards the underbrush.  
  
“Not now, sir. Down here!” Wesley whispered hoarsely, dragging Sharpe down by the collar into the shelter of a bush, out of sight and out of danger. “And make less of the noise!”  
  
Sharpe stared at the knife blade, still dripping blood, and then looked up into Wesley’s face; but he found no malice, no lunacy, no regret nor joy in his expression. Wesley's face was an impassive mask; it was impossible to read any emotion there at all save in those hard blue eyes, where the colonel thought he detected... satisfaction.  
  
“You cut his throat!” Sharpe whispered. He was still shocked to the core; shocked that he had witnessed a murder, yet shocked also that the murderer was talking to him as if they were not in the middle of a fearsome bombardment, and as if he hadn’t just slit a man’s throat in cold blood.  
  
“Yes, sir.” Wesley replied simply.  
  
"But why?" Sharpe demanded, desperate to understand. "Why, in God's Name?"  
  
The expression in Wesley's eyes became hard as flint, and pitying.  
  
"He killed Lieutenant Fitzgerald,” he said.  
  
“What!”  
  
“Yes, sir. I saw him do it. And he was destroying my company, sir."  
  
"Your company?" Sharpe echoed incredulously, still reeling from Wesley’s blatant accusation of murder.  
  
"My company. You remember what the Lights were like before the likes of Hakeswill, Morris and Hicks came along. You remember – don’t you, sir?"  
  
Sharpe thought about it. Now Wesley mentioned it he recalled that he had on some level noted a change of attitude in the 33rd's Light Company since Sergeant Hakeswill arrived. They had become surly, less talkative between themselves, more guarded than usual whenever they spoke with an officer. He had put it down to dissatisfaction with their posting to India, but here Wesley was suggesting that it was nothing to do with climate or being far away from home.  
  
Seeing this spark of comprehension in his colonel's expression Wesley nodded, casually wiping his blade clean on the long grass.  
  
"I see that you do remember, sir, and it was all because of that bastard. Hakeswill was a liar, a cheat, a thief, a rapist and a murder. He beat the men until the women came to him, and they'd do anything to make him stop. He stole, and when officers came looking he put the blame on someone else – and if anyone stood up to him he'd kill them, or find a way to disgrace them utterly."   
  
Wesley's eyes glittered.  
  
"As I found out. Sir."  
  
Sharpe felt a sick feeling in his stomach. Beneath that striped tunic he knew another set of stripes entirely adorned Wesley's back – he knew how recently they had been given too, and on who’s accusation. Even when sentence was passed Sharpe had not wanted to believe that Wesley was guilty of the crime that he'd been charged with, and Lieutenant Lawford had been particularly adamant of the man's innocence. Colonel Sharpe had known Arthur Wesley a long time – owed his life to the man, if he was honest – and this was not the image of the stalwart, loyal soldier he had formed of him; not now, not ever. Yet he had just glimpsed within the man a ruthlessness that he had never supposed might be there; a cold, calculating mind that plotted and bided its time. It was a chilling thought, and under that gaze Sharpe could not help but give a small shiver.  
  
"I don't understand you," he said carefully. Wesley's expression did not alter, but something in those icy blue eyes softened, became warmer.  
  
"No, sir; I don't think you ever will.”  
  
There was a beat of silence in which both men exchanged glances, Wesley aware of some unspoken communication in Sharpe’s eyes that he could not quite understand… and then the moment was broken; a rocket bursting in the background only a few yards away. Sharpe looked down at Fitzgerald’s corpse. From the little he had seen of the young man he had liked Fitzgerald; now he would have to write home to his family, but he knew his letter would not contain any mention of the black deeds of a murderous sergeant, nor the avenging knife of a tiger-striped soldier.  
  
“Poor Fitzgerald,” Sharpe murmured.  
  
“He was a good officer,” Wesley said simply. Then continued; “Sir, will I be a sergeant again?"  
  
Sharpe frowned at the sudden change of subject.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me, sir."  
  
"Why on earth have you brought that up now?"  
  
"My price for this bloody mission was the return of my stripes," Wesley growled. "Do I have your promise that you'll give them to me? When this is over, will I be Sergeant Wesley again?"  
  
"Yes!" Sharpe snapped, suddenly angry that Wesley could be so petty as to bring up that subject at this most inconvenient time. "Yes, you have my word!"  
  
Another rocket exploded just a few feet away from them, but Wesley did not even flinch as the spent canister crashed through the tree branches to the right of them.  
  
"In that case, sir, I bring a message from Colonel McCandless. The Tippoo’s built a tunnel under the East wall of the city and mined it; it’s stuffed with powder and he’s given orders to blow it when our lads are storming the breach.”  
  
The magnitude of this intelligence did not escape Sharpe, and he sat appalled as visions of what such an explosion would do to an unsuspecting army lured into such a trap flashed through his mind. There would be nothing left of Harris’ force to speak of.  
  
“But how could he be sure that we would strike there?” he demanded.  
  
“The river, sir,” Wesley replied. “And the fact that he purposefully left the wall weaker than the other three. He knew General Harris wouldn’t miss such an opportunity, as would any good commander.”  
  
And all that time they had been digging, bombarding the wall and skirmishing whilst Tippoo Sultan had quietly planned their annihilation. The thought went beyond appalling; it was downright diabolical! Were they to have endured all their hardships for nothing? They could not return to Madras with their tails between their legs; but where could they go from here?  
  
“Have you seen this mine? Could it be disabled, do you think?” Sharpe hazarded, but Wesley shook his head.  
  
“I have seen it – and no, sir. Its entrance is an old gatehouse which they’ve sealed it up tight, and it’s guarded night and day.”  
  
“Tippoo would be a fool if it wasn’t,” Sharpe noted grimly. “And it’s too late the stop the siege now; not with the monsoon on its way. We’re committed. Hell and damnation! If only we could stop the mine blowing…”  
  
Sharpe fell silent, pondering over what he had just said. An idea began to take shape. Maybe that was what was needed? Yes… The more he thought about it, the more the problem seemed to provide its own solution.  
  
“Could you get to the fuse, do you reckon, without anyone seeing you?” he asked Wesley. The other man considered this.  
  
“I could, sir. But even if I did, even if I took it out they’d still be able to blow it -"  
  
"No, Wesley, I _want_ you to blow it!" Sharpe snarled, this time surprising Wesley with his sudden ferocity. “If that mine is blown early before our men advance into the breach, then Seringapatam would be wide open to us! Tippoo’s plans would be for nothing, and we shall have turned his own cunning against him!”  
  
Wesley remained silent for a moment, and Sharpe could see he was thinking this over, weighing the idea for merit and plausibility – which was not the job nor the right of a soldier. Normally the colonel would have been infuriated by such a liberty; but watching Wesley he found himself fascinated, and eagerly waited for the reply. Would it work? Could it work?  
  
"That'll do it, sir," came back the verdict.  
  
"Quite." Sharpe's green eyes flashed in the darkness, alight with excitement of the idea. "Don't fail me, Wesley; everything is relying on you."  
  
Wesley held his gaze for a moment longer, then gave a stiff nod of understanding.  
  
“I'll be there, sir. Remember my stripes."  
  
And with that he was up, gave Fitzgerald’s body a last glance, and dashed away through the undergrowth back into the mêlée; vanishing into the night with the stealth of a cat.  
  
"If you pull this off I'll make you bloody RSM!" Sharpe muttered under his breath.  
  
But he could not worry about Arthur Wesley now. What he had to do _now_ was find his way out of these blasted trees, regroup what was left of his battalion and then, if he managed to get out of this mess alive, he had to find General Harris and deliver McCandless' warning.


	4. Part IV i: Assaye, 1803

“But I’ve often wondered, Wesley,” Colonel McCandless said. “Why a man from the ranks would want to be an officer?”  
  
There was a short silence, punctuated only by a gentle swish as Wesley stropped the colonel’s razor on a saddle girth, and then the sergeant spoke quietly;  
  
“So that I could be allowed to think, sir.”  
  
The colonel blinked. Whatever answer he had expected, it certainly had not been anything like that.  
  
“I don’t understand you. All men think, Wesley; it is as natural as breathing.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant, sir.” Wesley looked askance at McCandless, a pained expression in his blue eyes. “I meant thinking for thinking’s sake. You don’t know what it’s like, sir, being able to think and finding no one will let you. All my life I’ve been told it’s not my place to think. I was beat at the orphanage for thinking and asking questions – I should do as I was told and not dare to do otherwise, they said. Even after I escaped that hell-hole and joined the army nobody would let me think; because a soldier should not presume to think, just follow orders and let the officers do the thinking for him, no matter what blunder that leads to!”  
  
“No army can be a democracy, Wesley,” McCandless pointed out, still not able to see what the sergeant was driving at. “You know that as well as I do.”  
  
“No, that’s not it either!” Wesley said hotly, his temper flaring momentarily. “I mean… I’m a soldier, so I should not think; and if I dare to think differently to an officer and say so, or ask a question he doesn’t like, I will be punished. I’m low-born and thinking is for the better classes, so I should not be able to think and should not even want to. But I do think, sir. I think about all sorts of things, all the time – sometimes I need to think in order to keep myself sane. I read books too, and newspapers whenever I can lay my hands on them. And I want to be able to talk about the things I read and think, to ask questions and be recognised as someone who has thoughts and ideas… but I’ll never be allowed to, not as a sergeant. The only way I’ll be allowed to think is if I become an officer.”  
  
“So what you are saying,” McCandless said after a thoughtful pause. “Is that you want to be a philosopher?”  
  
“What? Like Plato, or Locke? ‘Neither principles nor ideas are innate’?” Wesley gave a derisive laugh, but stopped short and sighed in frustration at the expression of amazement on McCandless’ face. “See? You’re surprised that I even know who Locke is, let alone ever read anything of his! I was born with the ability to think, sir, and the least I want to do is use it!”  
  
And with this last outburst Wesley fell silent, putting the razor down and staring dejectedly at the floor of the mud hut. McCandless watched him, contemplating the hooked nose, clenched square jaw and angry blue eyes, and somehow felt that he was seeing the sergeant in a whole new light. The man was tall, slightly built, so skinny as to be almost skeletal in places, with unusually short tawny-brown hair and a permanent growth of dark stubble on his chin and cheeks. The colonel knew that Wesley was Irish by birth (though having been with an English regiment so long there was very little left in his speech to suggest his origins) but did not know much else apart from that he had been brought up in a church orphanage in Dublin, and had run away as soon as he was old enough to do so with any success, eventually joining the army – and this the colonel had only gathered from his nephew, Lawford, and through odd phrases or anecdotes which Wesley dropped now and again when he was in an unusually verbose mood. A private, brooding man, McCandless had viewed Wesley merely as a surly but reliable fellow with a dash of cunning and fighting spirit thrown into the mix; but now it seemed he could add intelligence, a sound ability to reason and ambition to those other qualities, and to McCandless’ mind it seemed this might prove a very dangerous combination if the sergeant did somehow achieve his impossible dream of gaining a commission.  
  
“What else can you do, save read and think?” McCandless asked gently. Wesley turned to look at him again, and the colonel was relieved to see that the anger had gone from the man’s eyes; though it had been replaced by weariness, and perhaps not a little sadness.  
  
“I can fight, sir,” he said. “And play the violin.”  
  
“Who taught you?”  
  
“No one, sir. I taught myself to play, as I taught myself to read. No one would bother themselves for me.”  
  
“Then if you would be so kind, Mr. Wesley,” McCandless said, purposefully using the title that was Wesley’s by right as an RSM. “I would be very grateful if you would read some of my Bible to me this evening. Revelations, I feel, might speak to me tonight.”  
  
That night the colonel relapsed into fever, and Wesley sat in the hut doorway, listening to the rain beat on the land, and thinking.


	5. Part IV ii: Assaye, 1803

“He says there are no fords east of here, Sir Richard.”  
  
Wesley, who had been looking through Sevajee’s long ivory telescope, hung back as Colonel McCandless questioned the local farmers that had been brought forward to provide information to the general.  
  
“Find me a clever one,” Sir Richard said. “And ask him again.”  
  
“That will not make the answer any different,” Sevajee muttered under his breath.  
  
“It might do,” Wesley murmured back. “After all, there is a ford further downriver.”  
  
Sevajee turned his head in surprise and gave the sergeant a hard stare.  
  
“And how would you know that, Sergeant Wesley?”  
  
“It makes sense that there is,” Wesley replied coolly. “There has to be.”  
  
Meanwhile McCandless had picked out one of the farmers and brought him up to where the general was kneeling just at the crest, scanning the river.  
  
“Ask him if he has any relatives north of the river,” Sharpe ordered McCandless.  
  
“He has a brother and several cousins, sir,” McCandless translated.  
  
“So how does his mother visit her son north of the river?”  
  
The farmer launched himself into a long explanation, in which he stated that in the dry season his mother walked across the river bed, but in the wet season, when the waters rose, she was forced to come upstream and cross at Taunklee. Wesley listened to McCandless’ running translation with growing contempt, thinking the farmer one of the greatest fools that ever lived instead of the “clever” fellow that the general had asked for.  
  
Sharpe listened to the man, then huffed in what sounded like disappointment. The general collapsed his telescope, and Wesley gaped in disbelief.  
  
“But he can’t believe that!” the sergeant protested.  
  
“It looks like he does,” Sevajee commented.  
  
“We will search further east,” Sharpe announced bluntly.  
  
“Sevajee you have to tell him!” Wesley whispered fiercely. Sevajee, however, merely raised his dark eyebrows quizzically.  
  
“Why do you not tell him?”  
  
“Because I can’t – he’d never believe me! He’d believe you, though.”  
  
The general was crawling back down the ridge, and the Staff and cavalry escort were making motions to get underway again. Panic rose in Wesley’s breast.  
  
“Sevajee, please!” he hissed.  
  
“General Sharpe!” Sevajee raised his voice, but did not face away from Wesley. “Sergeant Wesley believes there to be a ford here.”  
  
Wesley’s eyes spoke their thanks to Sevajee, but the sergeant was feeling far from relieved, for he still had to convince his superiors of the existence of a ford where a local did not believe there to be one. All eyes were trained on him, including those of the general. Sharpe scrutinised the sergeant with a hard gaze.  
  
“You think there is a ford here, Wesley?” Sharpe asked crisply. Wesley steeled his nerves, and replied.  
  
“I don’t think, sir, I know.”  
  
“How?” There was an edge of sarcasm in the way the general said the word, but Wesley also thought he detected a hint of hope. Sharpe was prepared to listen, it seemed.  
  
“He insists there is not, sir,” McCandless said, having questioned the farmer yet again.  
  
“Then he’s a liar, sir,” Wesley snapped, somewhat impatiently. “Or an eejit. Probably the latter.”  
  
Sharpe raised his eyebrows at Wesley’s forthright behaviour; behaviour which brought back memories of that fearful night in the _tope_ at Seringapatam. For all it hinted of impertinence, Sharpe somehow had the feeling that now, as then, the blue-eyed Irishman was about to turn events in their favour. He held out his telescope to Wesley.  
  
“Show me then.”  
  
Gaining confidence from the general’s encouragement, Wesley took the telescope and crawled his way up the slope of the ridge, where he stopped and steadied the glass. He fixed the village they were near in the lens.  
  
“Colonel,” Wesley said. “Could you ask him what that village is called?”  
  
“Peepulgaon,” the farmer said.  
  
“And the one opposite?”  
  
“Waroor.” The farmer then helpfully informed the sergeant that his cousin was the village headman, the _naique_.  
  
This caused a stir amongst the assembled officers, for they had not known of another village on the north bank of the river, and Wesley could not blame them, as he had only been able to see the cluster of straw roofs in a small fold of land with the aid of Sevajee’s telescope. Sharpe had crawled up beside Wesley and held his hand out for the telescope.  
  
“Let me see!”  
  
Wesley surrendered the telescope and pointed in the relevant direction.  
  
“Directly opposite, sir; barely three hundred yards apart. I’ve never known of two villages so close together either side of a river that don’t have a way of visiting each other, sir. It stands to reason that there’s a ford there, else why would they bother?”  
  
Sharpe remained silent, studying the view through the telescope minutely; then he lowered the instrument and fixed Wesley with an intense gaze.  
  
“It stands to reason,” he repeated in confirmation of the theory. “I find myself agreeing with you, sergeant, but others do not. Are you utterly certain that you wish to recommend to me that we cross here?”  
  
Wesley recognised that Sharpe was being generous and allowing him to back down. If he was wrong, if he was mistaken and there was no ford there, it would be the end of Arthur Wesley and most likely the campaign. But if he was correct…  
  
“There’s a ford here, sir,” Wesley said firmly. “I will stake my life on it.”  
  
Sharpe gave an infinitesimal nod in acknowledgement. The die was cast.  
  
“Good,” he said softly. “Because it is not only your life that you are staking, Wesley, but the life of every man in this army; mine own included.”  
  
“Not yours, sir,” Wesley replied, quietly but emphatically. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”  
  
A strange expression flitted across the general’s face and Wesley wondered for a moment what he had said; but Sharpe’s face cleared almost instantly, and the general turned to his Staff.  
  
“Gentlemen,” he announced, a smile curling at his lips as he collapsed the telescope, his green eyes once more alight with the anticipation of action. “We have our way across.”  
  
And despite himself Wesley felt a small spark of pride in his breast. He had wanted a reputation as a thinker, and now he had it.


	6. Part IV iii: Assaye, 1803

It was as if time had slowed to a crawl around him and Wesley could see everything, hear everything and move faster than anyone else; everything on the dusty smoke-wreathed, blood-soaked battlefield existed in a state of perfect clarity. He saw the group of six Mahratta artillerymen emerge from where they had been sheltering beneath their gun, he saw that they were armed with pikes, and he saw that Sir Richard was isolated with no one to help him. Wesley opened his mouth to scream a warning but already he was spurring the horse at breakneck speed towards the gunners. It was ten paces, no more, ten paces in which his mind was fixed on one thought alone; that they must not take Sharpe, so that pike _must_ be for him.  
  
Wesley’s warning turned into a chilling battle cry as he urged the general's spare horse at full charge onto the gunners, knocking them down, the pike piercing through his mount which expired with a horrifying whinny. Instinctively he kicked his feet free of the stirrups in readiness to throw himself from the saddle, but the horse twisted as it fell, and as he fell with it there was a heavy blow to the back of his head and his vision exploded into thousands of bright stars which flashed painfully before his eyes... Then everything went black.  
  
When he next came to Wesley was surprised to find that he was lying flat on his back beneath what looked like the wheel of an upturned gun carriage. He could not understand what he was doing here, and it was with a sense of alarm that he all at once remembered what had occurred before that moment, why exactly he was here on the ground with his head throbbing and ears ringing, and though still disorientated he forced himself to sit up, looking desperately around to see if he could still see the general, to see if he had managed to buy Sharpe some time… and stared aghast when he saw that only a few paces away the general was facing down four of the Mahratta gunners, the other two of the original six lying dead on the ground.  
  
Wesley was astonished. Like the majority of the rank and file the sergeant had unconsciously accepted the general opinion that officers, whilst they might be good at directing troops, could not fight hand-to-hand; and the higher the rank the more this rule applied. But here Sharpe seemed to be proving this theory wrong, and was spitting and swearing, hacking and cutting with his heavy cavalry blade as if possessed, and the gunners were backing away, wary of the murderous energy of the young general they had thought they would capture easily. Now Wesley understood why Sharpe carried the hefty, inelegant blade instead of the usual slim sabres favoured by infantry officers – because Sharpe’s swordsmanship was not about finesse, but brute strength and butchery. Yet even fighting like a demon Wesley doubted the general could face off four of the buggers at once, especially as more Mahrattas were running to the scene, drawn by the sight of the gold lace of Sharpe's coat. He forced himself up, the world still spinning, and staggered towards Sharpe, gripping his own blade so hard that his knuckles were white.  
  
“Sir!” he croaked.  
  
“Stay back, Wesley!” Sharpe barked, not turning to look at the sergeant. “They want me y’see? And that’s fair, but they’ll kill you to get at me, and I won’t have that! Never!”  
  
Wesley believed he had misheard. The general, Sir Richard Sharpe, the Commander-in-Chief, could not be protecting him. Wesley’s mind struggled with the perverseness of this idea, trying to understand what was really happening.  
  
“Sir, you can’t!” he pleaded, but Sharpe laughed with vicious glee.  
  
“Can’t I?” he cried. “Watch me!”  
  
It occurred to Wesley that the general had gone mad; however, the sergeant could not think any further on the subject, as the Mahratta gunners had regrouped and were launching another attack. More were trying to reach the general from behind the upturned gun carriage and, finally being presented with something to do which his dazed mind understood, Wesley set about dispatching them – slashing open one’s belly and stabbing the other in the face. He then moved next to Sharpe, reinforcing the general just in time to meet a fresh rush of Mahrattas who had been hoping to overwhelm the English officer by weight of numbers alone; but found, however, that they now had two demons to face down instead of one.  
  
Help was on its way, Wesley could see, but the general and he were still isolated as they stood almost back-to-back, feeling impervious to danger and gloriously alive. They were champions of this arena, they could do no wrong!  
  
At this point Wesley tripped on the outstretched arm of a corpse and fell, leaving the general’s flank exposed. A tall Mahratta officer saw the chance this presented, and grinning with glee he scythed at the nape of Sharpe’s neck. It was a beautifully aimed blow and should have severed Sharpe’s spine on impact – but seeing the attack coming, Wesley sprang up from where he was kneeling on the ground to place his blade in the way of the stroke, the whole weight of his body behind the move. It was a clumsy but effective parry, Wesley’s sword broke and the Mahratta officer fell on him, gouging a great wound in his shoulder and Wesley cried out in pain. Sharpe turned, snarling in outrage and ran the officer through.  
   
Then the rest of the staff were with them again, and Wesley found himself looking up into Sharpe's green eyes. There was a wild expression on his face, those eyes wide, the young general struggling to shake off the last of the fighting madness... and Wesley could only sit there and gape, shivering as he tried to make sense of these confused last two minutes.  
  
"Y... you saved my life, sir," he stuttered. He was shaking violently now, blood oozing freely from his arm and the ringing in his head getting louder.  
  
"I couldn't let them kill you," was Sharpe's blunt reply. He did not manage to say any more as Major Blackiston came over, Captain Campell following leading Diomed.  
  
"Are you all right, sir?" Major Blackiston asked anxiously.  
  
"Yes, yes, thank you, Blackiston." The General seemed to have almost recovered his composure. He gestured to Wesley, who was lying still semi-stunned on the ground. "Get that man seen to; he was wounded defending me. Be careful of his head."  
  
"Sir –" Wesley protested weakly.  
  
"At once, Campbell!" Sharpe snapped, mounting Diomed and spurring off with the rest of his _entourage_ to rejoin the battle... and Wesley was left wondering what on earth had just happened.


	7. Part V i: Gawilghur, 1803

“You sent for me, sir?”  
  
“Yes, I did. Sit down, Wesley.”  
  
Lieutenant Wesley did as he was told, perching on the edge of the indicated couch. He did not know why the young general had summoned him here to his private quarters, especially at such a late hour; nor why Sir Richard seemed somewhat anxious.  
  
On his part Richard Sharpe stood nervously over by the sideboard, trying his best not to seem ill-at-ease but knowing that he was failing miserably. He had been working up the courage to speak to his former sergeant since they had succeeded in taking the fortress two days ago; but now he was actually here and they were face to face he was unsure quite how to proceed.  
  
“Would you like a drink?” he blurted out, and cursed himself almost immediately for offering. The offer felt clumsy and also far too clichéd. He was not trying to seduce some pretty ingénue after all… though he was not sure whether he was aiming for seduction or not, and it would take more than brandy to get Arthur Wesley drunk at that.  
  
Wesley was clearly surprised to be offered refreshment and raised his eyebrows half an inch, but he nodded courteously.  
  
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “That would be grand.”  
  
Sharpe turned and busied himself with pouring two glasses, then handed one to Wesley. Those blue eyes were watching him carefully, their expression clearly puzzled and to buy time Sharpe took a sip of his own drink, thinking perhaps he needed it more than his hypothetical ingénue.  
  
“How are you getting on in the 74th?” he asked. Wesley was about to shrug but stopped himself, recollecting in time that officers did not shrug.  
  
“Well enough, sir,” he said. “They’re trying to make me uncomfortable, but it’s not working. I’m perfectly happy with being inferior.” He smiled at his own attempt at a joke, but the smile faded when he did not get any reaction from the general. “’Could be worse,” he mumbled instead into his glass.  
  
The general felt his heart sink. Already it seemed the officers of the 74th were trying to make life as difficult as possible for Wesley, and as the years went by it would only get worse. Sharpe had always known Wesley to be a resilient fellow, and the lieutenant seemed to be coping well – if anything these past few months his speech had become more polished, his appearance far neater, his bearing was more gentlemanly and Sharpe’s informants had divulged that the ex-sergeant had persuaded the mess steward to give him some rudimentary instruction as to table etiquette. It seemed that, given time, Wesley would adapt well to the new world he now inhabited… but there was always the danger of trying too hard, and Sharpe wondered how long it would be before the both the officers and men turned of Wesley? How long before the isolation from his friends and comrades in the ranks got to him?   
   
"How exactly are they trying to make you uncomfortable?" Sharpe questioned, more to fill the silence than anything.   
  
"The usual ways, I suppose," Wesley replied, wondering what all this questioning was leading to. Was the general truly concerned for his welfare, or was Sir Richard testing him to see how far well he was shaping up to be an officer. "Nothing bad, mind; just things like odd phrases that are dropped which don't seem like they're talking about me, but they are - or discussing subjects they think I won't understand, or making jokes in Latin -" Here Wesley could not help but give a satisfied smile. "- which they've stopped now, because I can understand them; and correct their grammar."  
  
"You know Latin?" Sharpe asked, surprised despite himself. "How come?"  
  
Wesley's expression turned from amusement to irritation. "I may be from the ranks, but it doesn't mean I'm ignorant!" he snapped, then instantly flushed as he realised that he had just spoken out of turn. He hurriedly tried to make amends. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean no- I didn't mean _any_ offence. I just -"  
  
Sharpe however waved away the apology. "No, I deserved that, Wesley. You have proved that you are an intelligent man, a most uncommon man, several times over." Seeing the look of confusion had returned to Wesley's face Sharpe sighed heavily, and deciding to take the bull by the horns he unbuttoned his coat with one hand and sat down on the couch next to the lieutenant, taking a swig of his brandy.  
  
"Truth is, Wesley," he said after a moment's pause to gather what few wits had not deserted him. "That is about all I know of you, and I have come to the conclusion that I would like to know more."  
  
Wesley frowned, his posture having become slightly more rigid when the general had sat next to him and not being able to move any further along the couch. The young general's close proximity in such a situation was, though not _unsettling_ , certainly strange. He cleared his throat awkwardly.  
  
"There's not much to know, sir," he replied simply. "Not much beyond what you know."  
  
"You are quite mistaken; there is much more to know... and I should like to know it, if you will permit me."  
  
Wesley's blue eyes snapped up from where he'd been studying the carpet and was shocked to find that Sharpe was looking directly at him, a strange expression in his eyes that was somewhere between caution and inquisitiveness. Something in Wesley's mind rebelled against this - whatever _this_ was - and throwing all thought of rank aside he made to get up; but suddenly Sharpe's hand was there on his knee, arresting him and sending an electric shock through his body.  
  
Time seemed to stop. Both men stared down at the general's hand upon the lieutenant's knee; Sharpe because he had not meant to be so direct, and Wesley because he suddenly understood why the general was taking such an interest in him. He understood too well now. Raising his gaze, Wesley looked Sharpe squarely in the eyes.  
  
"Is this why I was made an officer?" he asked calmly, crisply. "Is this how I pay for my promotion, sir?"  
  
"No!" Sharpe said firmly, overcoming his shock and deciding to plunge into the abyss. "No. I promoted you for the reasons I gave in my dispatches; for your bravery and your talent for soldiering. In truth it should have come to you long before now – you have earned it three times over. But this... This is only if you want it. I would never force you; that is not what I want."  
  
He glanced down to where his hand still rested on the lieutenant's knee. He had not removed it, nor had Wesley flinched away from his touch but sat perfectly still watching, waiting; that cold blue gaze unreadable.  
  
“I meant what I said about wishing to know you better,” Sharpe continued, pressing on despite growing feelings of unease. “Ever since my first day in the 33rd, the first day I laid eyes on you, you struck me as a man that I could wholly rely upon and respect. In this I was proved correct; you are a fine soldier and a decent man. Yet in time I have come to realise that respect is not enough. Not for me, anyway.”  
  
He lifted his eyes, his cheeks burning from the admission of his heart’s desire but defiantly meeting Wesley’s gaze.  
  
“I want you to like me, Wesley; it is all I have ever wanted. As a sergeant it was unthinkable, dangerous even, but now you are an officer… Do you think you could bring yourself to like me, if only a little?”  
  
Silence descended once more, the question hanging in the air between them. Wesley’s expression was still unreadable and Sharpe swallowed nervously, knowing well that he had risked everything by laying his heart open to the other man. He had offered himself in the most complete sense, and Sharpe did not know what he would do should he face a refusal. Finally, after what seemed like an age, the lieutenant spoke;  
  
“You said once, sir, that you did not understand me.”  
  
“That is correct,” Sharpe said. His heart was pounding hard within his breast, making it difficult for him to keep his voice level. “I do not understand you; but, if you would let me, Wesley, I should like nothing better in the world than to learn how to understand you.”  
  
Wesley gave an infinitesimal nod of approval.  
  
“I should like that,” he said softly, and to Sharpe’s infinite relief and amazement the frost in the lieutenant’s blue eyes melted to be replaced by a warm, genuine smile. “I should like that more than you can imagine.”  
  
The general’s heart leapt for joy and was beating fit to burst when moments later Wesley leaned forward and gently, tenderly, pressed his lips against his own. What felt like a bolt of lightening shot through Sharpe’s being, and their kiss became heated, all reserve gone as limbs entwined and fingers became tangled in each other’s hair, and the general did not mind either when the lieutenant shifted their posture so as to tip him back down on the couch, and he felt Wesley to be hard against his thigh. Breaking away for a moment Sharpe looked up into the other man’s eyes, panting for breath and seeing his own desire reflected.  
  
“I think,” he said. “It would be wise to adjourn to my bedchamber. We would be safer, not to mention far more comfortable in there.”  
  
Wesley gave an amused smile, bending down again so that his lips hovered barely an inch from Sharpe’s.  
  
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” he murmured, purposefully allowing some of his native Irish lilt to enter his voice again. “And not before time. And see, there was I wondering how I was going to fuck you good and proper on such a small couch?”  
  
And Sharpe’s shocked laugh was mercifully silenced as his mouth was plundered yet again.


End file.
